The Fault In Our Stars from Gus's POV
by cphieeese
Summary: The entire story, written from Gus's POV
1. Chapter 1

_All characters and story line by John Green, in association with Penguin Books_

In the winter, I find that the pain of not being able to see can be much harder- Not that I would know, because I have 20/20 vision, But my friend Isaac couldn't see out of one eye. I had to help him over ice (Quite constant in Indianapolis) which didn't work very well, considering that I only had one leg.

Unfortunately, it seemed as though this would be getting worse. Isaac was going to have to get his other eye removed, because of a very unlikely bout of optical cancer. And that's why, at the moment, I am sitting in a tiny plastic chair in a church. Isaac had begged me to come to one of the meetings that his parents made him go to, to help him with his cancer. Or, really, the depression that went along with the cancer. I had gone through the same thing when I had cancer in my leg, but my parents (thankfully) did not force me to go.

Another reason I was going was because I was bored.

I sat in the chair and waited for Isaac to come over and sit next to me, following him with my eyes, when they caught a girl. Not a girl. Caroline. My eyes widened. She couldn't be alive- that's impossible. But then the girl turned around, and obviously it wasn't Caroline. Of course it wasn't.

Thank god. I feel bad about saying this, but Caroline was a bitch.

The girl caught me looking at her and blushed slightly, going down to sit in her chair. She looked away for a bit, then decided that she would stare right back. I didn't mind. In fact- I liked it. She was beautiful, in a strange way where you could tell that she was smart, and her outsides reflected that. She had short hair, and tubes going into her nose that she fiddled with every few seconds. Her eyes bore into me.

I looked away, and when I glanced back, she smiled slightly and raised her eyebrows, as if to say _I win_ I shrugged, and smiled back. I hate losing, but I was surprisingly okay with this.

A man walked into the room, and explained that we were sitting in the literal heart of Jesus, and how he had cancer in his balls and had one cut off. God, it was boring. Then we went around the circle, starting with Isaac and everyone introduced themselves. I went about sixth.

"My name is Augustus Waters," I said. "I'm seventeen. I had a little touch of osteosarcoma a year and a half ago, but I'm just here today at Isaac's request."

"And how are you feeling?" asked Patrick.

"Oh, I'm grand." I smiled, trying to think up something clever. "I'm on a roller coaster that only goes up, my friend."

The girl went next, and glanced at me before she started. "My name is Hazel. I'm sixteen. Thyroid with mets in my lungs. I'm okay." Hazel. It was a beautiful name. Almost as beautiful as she was.

What.

Why did I just think that?

I sat in silence until the guy in the middle- Patrick- asked me what my fears were. I looked up, startled

"My fears?"

"Yes."

"I fear oblivion," I said, already knowing the answer. "I fear it like the proverbial blind man who's afraid of the dark."

Isaac looked at me, and smiled. "Too soon,"

"Was that insensitive?" I asked, grinning. I actually didn't mean to make a joke, but I might as well continue. "I can be pretty blind to other people's feelings."

Isaac was laughing, but Patrick pursed his lips at me like he disapproved, and said, "Augustus, please. Let's return to you and your struggles. You said you fear oblivion?"

"I did," I answered.

Patrick seemed lost. "Would, uh, would anyone like to speak to that?" I kept silent, and Hazel raised her hand. Patrick called on her excitedly. Obviously she hated this group, probably because it sucked.

I looked at her, and she looked back at me, her green eyes boring into my blue ones. "There will come a time," She said, "when all of us are dead. All of us. There will come a time when there are no human beings remaining to remember that anyone ever existed or that our species ever did anything. There will be no one left to remember Aristotle or Cleopatra, let alone you. Everything that we did and built and wrote and thought and discovered will be forgotten and all of this will have been for naught. Maybe that time is coming soon and maybe it is millions of years away, but even if we survive the collapse of our sun, we will not survive forever. There was time before organisms experienced consciousness, and there will be time after. And if the inevitability of human oblivion worries you, I encourage you to ignore it. God knows that's what everyone else does."

I stared at her. That was, quite possibly, the most amazing thing I have ever heard. I tried to contain my smile, but it burst forth.

"Goddamn. I said, barely speaking. "Aren't you something else."

The rest of the session continued, and Patrick droned on, and I stared at Hazel. People talked about their problems, and Patrick finished by praying. Something I found annoying, but that my parents would have loved. When he finished, I pushed myself out of my chair, and walked over to Hazel, my gait hindered by my damn prosthetic. I would have loved to have walked over to her without a limp, but I did the best with what I had, and obviously, she found it appealing.

"What's your name?" I asked, using my best 'sexy' voice.

"Hazel."

"No, your full name."

"Um, Hazel Grace Lancaster." She blushed a bit, embarrassed by not saying her full name earlier. I wanted to stare at her, but Isaac walked up, and grinned at me. I turned to him.

"Hold on," I said, raising a finger. "That was actually worse than you made it out to be."

"I told you it was bleak."

"Why do you bother with it?"

"I don't know. It kind of helps?"

I leaned towards him so Hazel couldn't hear, but I had the feeling she could. "She's a regular?" I asked, and Isaac grinned.

"Yep," He nodded. "Hot, isn't she?" He said, and glanced at her. I grinned back.

"I'll say." I clasped Isaac by both shoulders and then took a half step away from him. "Tell Hazel about clinic."

Isaac leaned a hand against the snack table and looked at her. "Okay, so I went into clinic this morning, and I was telling my surgeon that I'd rather be deaf than blind. And he said, 'It doesn't work that way,' and I was, like, 'Yeah, I realize it doesn't work that way; I'm just saying I'd rather be deaf than blind if I had the choice, which I realize I don't have,' and he said, 'Well, the good news is that you won't be deaf,' and I was like, 'Thank you for explaining that my eye cancer isn't going to make me deaf. I feel so fortunate that an intellectual giant like yourself would deign to operate on me.'"

She cracked a smile. "He sounds like a winner. I'm gonna try to get me some eye cancer just so I can make this guy's acquaintance."

"Good luck with that. All right, I should go. Monica's waiting for me. I gotta look at her a lot while I can."

"Counterinsurgence tomorrow?" I asked.

"Definitely." Isaac turned and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

I turned to Hazel. "Literally," I said, thinking about how Patrick had said we were in the heart of Jesus.

"Literally?" she asked, her eyebrows raising. She fiddled with her tubes.

"We are literally in the heart of Jesus, I thought we were in a church basement, but we are literally in the heart of Jesus."

"Someone should tell Jesus," She said, and the side of her mouth quirked up. "I mean, it's gotta be dangerous, storing children with cancer in your heart."

"I would tell Him myself, but unfortunately I am literally stuck inside of His heart, so He won't be able to hear me." She laughed, her face lighting up. I shook my head. She was beautiful.

"What?" she asked, and looked down at her clothes, trying to find what I was looking at.

"Nothing," I said.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

I gave her a sad smile. "Because you're beautiful. I enjoy looking at beautiful people, and I decided a while ago not to deny myself the simpler pleasures of existence." A brief awkward silence ensued. I kept on going, trying to explain my predicament without revealing anything. "I mean, particularly given that, as you so deliciously pointed out, all of this will end in oblivion and everything."

She huffed, and rolled her eyes. "I'm not beau—"

"You're like a millennial Natalie Portman. Like V for Vendetta Natalie Portman." She was.

"Never seen it," she said. I raised my eyebrows.

"Really?" I asked. "Pixie-haired gorgeous girl dislikes authority and can't help but fall for a boy she knows is trouble. It's your autobiography, so far as I can tell." I tried to use my 'sexy voice' again.

She blushed and looked down. I noticed a person from the research hospital walk past me. I always tried to be nice to the others. "How's it going, Alisa?" I asked. She smiled and mumbled, "Hi, Augustus." Obviously not immune to my extreme charm. "Memorial people," I explained. I nodded at her. "Where do you go?"

"Children's," She said, quietly. I nodded. The conversation seemed over. "Well," She said, nodding vaguely toward the steps that led us out of the Literal Heart of Jesus. she tilted her cart onto its wheels and started walking. I limped beside her. "So…see you next time, maybe?" she asked, and looked at me through her lashes.

"You should see it," I said suddenly. "V for Vendetta, I mean." I added on, realizing she had no idea what I was talking about.

"Okay," She said. "I'll look it up."

I shook my head. She didn't seem to understand that I was trying to ask her on a date, which was understandable, considering that I was failing miserably. "No. With me. At my house," I said. "Now."

She stopped walking, and looked up at me. "I hardly know you, Augustus Waters. You could be an ax murderer." I grinned.

"True enough." I said, and kept on walking, trying to look like I wasn't missing my leg. She followed me up the stairs slowly.

I walked onto the sidewalk, and looked at Isaac. He was kissing her, mumbling "Always," to her and her saying, "Always," in return.

I went to stand by Hazel, and leaned slightly towards her, whispering. "They're big believers in PDA."

"What's with the 'always'?" she asked, cringing as the slurping sounds intensified.

"Always is their thing. They'll always love each other and whatever. I would conservatively estimate they have texted each other the word always four million times in the last year."

A couple more cars drove up, and picked up a few people. Now it was just me and Hazel, watching Isaac and Monica, who continued to kiss. His hand reached for her boob over her shirt and pawed at it, his palm still while his fingers moved around. He had no idea what he was doing. I guess I can't say that though, considering that I would have had no idea either, seeing as though I'm still a virgin. I looked down at Hazel.

"Imagine taking that last drive to the hospital," she said quietly. "The last time you'll ever drive a car."

I looked away. "You're killing my vibe here, Hazel Grace. I'm trying to observe young love in its many splendored awkwardness." I said, gesturing vaguely towards the two.

"I think he's hurting her boob," she said.

"Yes, it's difficult to ascertain whether he is trying to arouse her or perform a breast exam." I reached into my pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I flipped it open and put a cigarette between my lips.

"Are you serious?" she asked, looking at me angrily. "You think that's cool? Oh, my God, you just ruined the whole thing."

"Which whole thing?" I asked, turning to her. I let the cigarette dangle from my mouth, and tried not to smile.

"The whole thing where a boy who is not unattractive or unintelligent or seemingly in any way unacceptable stares at me and points out incorrect uses of literality and compares me to actresses and asks me to watch a movie at his house. But of course there is always a hamartia, and yours is that oh, my God, even though you HAD FREAKING CANCER you give money to a company in exchange for the chance to acquire YET MORE CANCER. Oh, my God. Let me just assure you that not being able to breathe? SUCKS. Totally disappointing. Totally." She huffed.

"A hamartia?" I asked, not being quite as smart as her.

"A fatal flaw," She explained, turning away from me. She stepped toward the curb, leaving me behind her. A car drove up, and a woman looked out the window at Hazel, presumably her mother. I panicked. I actually liked Hazel, and I really didn't want her to think badly of me. I grabbed her hand.

She yanked my hand free but turned back to me.

"They don't kill you unless you light them," I said as her Mom arrived at the curb. "And I've never lit one. It's a metaphor, see: You put the killing thing right between your teeth, but you don't give it the power to do its killing." I was desperate.

"It's a metaphor," she said, confused.

"It's a metaphor," I said, and stared at her. Her green eyes looked back.

"You choose your behaviors based on their metaphorical resonances . . ."

"Oh, yes." I grinned. "I'm a big believer in metaphor, Hazel Grace." I liked talking to her.

She turned to the car. Tapped the window. It rolled down. "I'm going to a movie with Augustus Waters," she said. "Please record the next several episodes of the ANTM marathon for me." I grinned. She seemed so smart and scholarly, but she liked to watch ANTM. I was liking her more and more.


	2. Chapter 2

_All original content belongs to John Green, and Penguin Books_

I drove terribly, and I could tell that hazel was a bit freaked out. Whenever I slammed on the brakes, she would fly forward, and gasp. She would glance at me, trying to cover it up, but I coul tell. We hadn't gone very far when I looked at her, trying to break the silence.

"I failed the driving test three times." She looked at me, and raised her eyebrows.

"You don't say."

I laughed, and nodded. "Well, I can't feel pressure in old Prosty, and I can't get the hang of driving left-footed. My doctors say most amputees can drive with no problem, but . . . yeah. Not me. Anyway, I go in for my fourth driving test, and it goes about like this is going." I smiled, a small grin, and looked back at the road. A light in front of us had turned red. I slammed on the breaks, and it threw Hazel into her seatbelt. She squeaked. I cringed. "Sorry. I swear to God I am trying to be gentle. Right, so anyway, at the end of the test, I totally thought I'd failed again, but the instructor was like, 'Your driving is unpleasant, but it isn't technically unsafe.'"

"I'm not sure I agree," She said, her voice light. "I suspect Cancer Perk." Cancer Perks are the little things cancer kids get that regular kids don't: basketballs signed by sports heroes, free passes on late homework, unearned driver's licenses, etc.

"Yeah," I said. The light turned green. I slammed on the gas, and she grimaced.

"You know they've got hand controls for people who can't use their legs," She pointed out.

"Yeah," I said. "Maybe someday." I sighed. I knew that I would probably not be around for that someday, but still.

She glanced slyly up at me, and bit her lip. "So, are you in school?" I knew that tactic. Generally, if your parents think that there's a chance you'll die, they pull you out.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm at North Central. A year behind, though: I'm a sophomore. You?" I wasn't expecting her to be enrolled, but it seemed like a kind gesture.

"No, my parents withdrew me three years ago." My eyebrows shot up.

"Three years?" I asked, astonished. You usually weren't pulled out for that long unless your parents were absolutely sure you would die.

Hazel told me the broad outline of her cancer: diagnosed with Stage IV thyroid cancer when she was thirteen. She was told it was incurable, and tried chemo for her lung tumors. The tumors shrank, then grew. Her lungs started to fill up with water. She was going to die-

her hands and feet ballooned; her skin cracked; her lips were perpetually blue. She ended up in the ICU with pneumonia, and her parents had asked her if she was ready to die, and she said she was, but then she had a procedure to get the fluid out of her lungs, and lived. She was given Phalanxifor, a drug that only worked on 20% of people, and she was part of the 20%.

She was obviously only telling me the happiest story she could, but still, it sounded like hell. "So now you gotta go back to school," I said.

"I actually can't,because I already got my GED. So I'm taking classes at MCC," which was our community college.

"A college girl," I said, nodding. "That explains the aura of sophistication." I smirked at her, and she shoved my arm playfully. She smiled.

We made a wheels-screeching turn into a subdivision with eight-foot-high stucco walls. My house was the first one on the left. A two story colonial that I had hated ever since I first saw it. I braked in the driveway.

She followed me inside, looking at all the paintings and pillows that lay around. Her mouth was open slightly, maybe from her breathing problem, and maybe from seeing how sappy it all was. Her green eyes flitted around.

"My parents call them Encouragements," I explained. "They're everywhere." My parents were in the kitchen, making enchilada's. They noticed me walk in with Hazel. Fortunantly, my parents are pretty cool with me bringing people into the house, but I could see them glance at each other, probably because I never brought in a girl. "This is Hazel Grace," I said, and nodded toward her slightly.

"Just Hazel," she said, glancing at them, and then looking at her feet.

"How's it going, Hazel?" My dad asked, coming out of the kitchen and wiping his hands.

"Okay," she said, shrugging.

"How was Isaac's Support Group?"

"It was incredible," I said, rolling my eyes.

"You're such a Debbie Downer," My mom said, but smiled. "Hazel, do you enjoy it?"

She was quiet for a second, and pressed her lips together. "Most of the people are really nice," she finally said.

"That's exactly what we found with families at Memorial when we were in the thick of it with Gus's treatment," My dad said. "Everybody was so kind. Strong, too. In the darkest days, the Lord puts the best people into your life." I rolled my eyes.

"Quick, give me a throw pillow and some thread because that needs to be an Encouragement," I said, and my dad looked a little annoyed, so I put my arm over his shoulder. "I'm just kidding, Dad. I like the freaking Encouragements. I really do. I just can't admit it because I'm a teenager." My dad rolled his eyes.

"You're joining us for dinner, I hope?" My mom asked, leaning out of the kitchen.

"I guess?" she said. "I have to be home by ten. Also I don't, um, eat meat?"

"No problem. We'll vegetarianize some," My mom said.

"Animals are just too cute?" I asked, and smiled slightly.

"I want to minimize the number of deaths I am responsible for," she said. I opened his mouth to respond but then stopped myself, realizing that it was quite a somber thought.

My mom filled the silence. "Well, I think that's wonderful." They talked to Hazel for a bit about how the enchiladas were Famous Waters Enchiladas and Not to Be Missed and about how my curfew was also ten, and how they were inherently distrustful of anyone who gave their kids curfews other than ten, and was she in school—"she's a College student," I interjected, and smiled at her. My parents didn't ask about her cancer, which she seemed happy about.

"Hazel and I are going to watch V for Vendetta so she can see her filmic doppelgänger, mid-two thousands Natalie Portman." I said.

"The living room TV is yours for the watching," my dad said, and smiled.

"I think we're actually gonna watch it in the basement."

My dad laughed. "Good try. Living room."

"But I want to show Hazel Grace the basement," I said, trying to wheedle them into letting me do my will.

"Just Hazel," she said.

"So show Just Hazel the basement," said my dad. "And then come upstairs and watch your movie in the living room." I puffed out my cheeks, balanced on my leg, and twisted my hips, throwing the prosthetic forward. "Fine," I mumbled, angrily.

she followed me down carpeted stairs to a huge basement bedroom. A shelf at my eye level reached all the way around the room, and it was stuffed solid with basketball memorabilia: dozens of trophies with gold plastic men mid–jump shot or dribbling or reaching for a layup

toward an unseen basket. There were also lots of signed balls and sneakers.

"I used to play basketball," I explained, noticing her look at the trophy's. I used to love it, but now that love had become a little embarrassing.

"You must've been pretty good."

"I wasn't bad, but all the shoes and balls are Cancer Perks." I walked toward the TV, where I kept all of my DVD's. I grabbed V for Vendetta. "I was, like, the prototypical white Hoosier kid," I said. "I was all about resurrecting the lost art of the midrange jumper, but then one day I was shooting free throws—just standing at the foul line at the North Central gym shooting from a rack of balls. All at once, I couldn't figure out why I was methodically tossing a spherical object through a toroidal object. It seemed like the stupidest thing I could possibly be doing." I looked at her, and she seemed to be interested. "I started thinking about little kids putting a cylindrical peg through a circular hole, and how they do it over and over again for months when they figure it out, and how basketball was basically just a slightly more aerobic version of that same exercise. Anyway, for the longest time, I just kept sinking free throws. I hit eighty in a row, my all-time best, but as I kept going, I felt more and more like a two-year-old. And then for some reason I started to think about hurdlers. Are you okay?"

She had sat down on the couch. Her breathing was a little heavy, and her shoulders slumped forward. She looked like she had just run a marathon, but without the sweat.

"I'm fine," She said. "Just listening. Hurdlers?"

I looked at her for a minute, and then continued. "Yeah, hurdlers. I don't know why. I started thinking about them running their hurdle races, and jumping over these totally arbitrary

Objects that had been set in their path. And I wondered if hurdlers ever thought, you know, this would go faster if we just got rid of the hurdles."

"This was before your diagnosis?" She asked, her eyebrows raised.

"Right, well, there was that, too." I smiled sadly. "The day of the existentially fraught free throws was coincidentally also my last day of dual leggedness. I had a weekend between when they scheduled the amputation and when it happened. My own little glimpse of what Isaac is going through."

She nodded, and smiled at me. We sat like that for a minute or two, her smiling at me, her eyes slightly glazed over, and me, studying her face. She suddenly seemed to come back, and I looked down at my hands, which were holding V for Vendetta, and felt my face get hot. I really liked Hazel. She was beautiful in a way that she seemed to not understand, and her mind was full of interesting ideas.

"Do you have siblings?" she asked, suddenly.

"Huh?" I asked.

"You said that thing about watching kids play."

"Oh, yeah, no. I have nephews, from my half-sisters. But they're older. They're like—DAD, HOW OLD ARE JULIE AND MARTHA?"

"Twenty-eight!"

"They're like twenty-eight. They live in Chicago. They are both married to very fancy lawyer dudes. Or banker dudes. I can't remember. You have siblings?"

She shook my head no. "So what's your story?" I asked, and sat down next to her, but not too close.

"I already told you my story. I was diagnosed when—" I shook my head.

"No, not your cancer story. Your story. Interests, hobbies, passions, weird fetishes, etcetera." I gestured with my hands, and she smiled slightly.

"Um," she said, and let out a small giggle. Usually I wouldn't use the word 'giggle' but in this case, I'm pretty sure it was correct. It was absolutely adorable.

"Don't tell me you're one of those people who becomes their disease. I know so many people like that. It's disheartening. Like, cancer is in the growth business, right? The taking-people-over business. But surely you haven't let it succeed prematurely." She stared at me for a minute, and the smile on my face faded a little.

"I am pretty extraordinary." She said, and shrugged.

"I reject that out of hand. Think of something you like. The first thing that comes to mind."

"Um. Reading?"

"What do you read?"

"Everything. From, like, hideous romance to pretentious fiction to poetry. Whatever."

"Do you write poetry, too?"

"No. I don't write."

"There!" I said. "Hazel Grace, you are the only teenager in America who prefers reading poetry to writing it. This tells me so much. You read a lot of capital-G great books, don't you?" I grinned. I couldn't help it. I really wanted to know about her.

"I guess?"

"What's your favorite?"

"Um," she said awkwardly, like she wanted to tell me, but really didn't. I knew the feeling. There are things that everyone has, that they want to keep theirs. Like a wonderful secret.

My favorite book is probably An Imperial Affliction," she said, and I smiled. She had told me her special thing.

"Does it feature zombies?" I asked.

"No," she said, and a small smile streached across her face.

"Stormtroopers?" The grin became larger. I smiled back. "I am going to read this terrible book with the boring title that does not contain storm troopers," I promised, and I saw that she seemed to regret telling me.

I grabbed a stack of paperback books on the coffee table, snatching up a small book. "All I ask in exchange is that you read this brilliant and haunting novelization of my favorite video game." She smiled, and I reached over to give her the book. Our hands got tangled, and I could feel my heart beat a little faster when her small, pale hand touched mine. I grabbed it.

"Cold," I said, and pressed my hand to her wrist.

"Not cold so much as underoxygenated," she said, and looked at her case of oxygen.

"I love it when you talk medical to me," I said. And pulled her off of the couch with me.

We watched the movie with several inches of couch between us. I still didn't know her very well, but I really wanted to reach out and grab her hand, which was sitting on the couch between us. As the credits rolled, I turned to her. "Pretty great, huh?"

"Pretty great," She said, nodding and doing that thing where you press your lips together to keep from smiling. I could tell she didn't think it was great.

"I should get home. Class in the morning," she said, suddenly.

I hopped up and went over to the kitchen to find my keys, which I keep in a little box near the back door. My dad walked in, and leaned on the counter next to me.

"She seems nice." He said. I nodded. He looked at me for a minute, and I knew what he was thinking. She was basically another Caroline. But I didn't think that. Not at all. She was nice, and smart, and she was even more beautiful than Caroline. But I had never really loved Caroline. She was just interesting.

She drove my car home. She was much better at driving then I was. I leaned back in my seat, and clicked the button for the CD player on. I glanced at her. She didn't seem to care. It was my favorite band- The Hectic Glow. They were fantastic. Well, not really, but I liked them.

I looked over at Hazel. She was staring at my leg- not the real one- the prosthetic. I sighed. I know that there is, with everyone, an aversion to people who have large faults. (like not having a leg.) I took the chance to study her face. She had light skin, and her lips were, at the moment, pressed together. She had beautiful green eyes, and her short hair was nut brown. She had the tubes running out of her nose- which she was fiddling with.

My eyes tracked the tube up to the tank of oxygen, which was sitting in the cup holder between us. I looked down at my leg, and then back to the oxygen. She couldn't really say that I was worse off, but I was damaged on the outside.

She parked the car, and looked up at me. She bit her lip, and raised the corners of her mouth. She looked down at her hand, which were still fiddling with the tube, and then back up at me. I considered kissing her. I actually was sure that I was going to kiss her, but then… I'm not sure. I just kind of knew that I did want to- not yet.

"Hazel Grace," I said, my voice was quiet and low. "It has been a real pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Ditto, Mr. Waters," she said, and looked down, her cheeks reddening slightly. I felt my yje corners of my mouth creep upwards.

"May I see you again?" I asked, nervous.

"Sure."

"Tomorrow?" I asked, and raised my eyebrows, hoping for a yes.

"Patience, grasshopper," She said, and grinned. "You don't want to seem overeager."

"Right, that's why I said tomorrow," I said. "I want to see you again tonight. But I'm willing to wait all night and much of tomorrow." I looked at her intently. She rolled her eyes. "I'm serious," I said, and nudged her shoulder.

"You don't even know me," She said, and grabbed the book from the other cup holder. "How about I call you when I finish this?"

"But you don't even have my phone number," I said, whining. I wanted her to stay. I had actually written my number in the front cover, but still.

"I strongly suspect you wrote it in the book."

I broke out in a smile. "And you say we don't know each other."


	3. Chapter 3

_As usual, All belongs to John Green and Penguin Books._

_Also, I'm sorry it's so short today. I've been busy, and I'm trying to update every two days. (If possible.)_

Today was… Interesting. I woke up late, and because my parents still had jobs, they were already gone. I got up and went to the kitchen, and tried to make myself eggs. I failed miserably. I sat at the breakfast table for a while, trying to read _An Imperial Affliction _but again, I failed. Not that it wasn't good- it was. But I don't read quickly, and it was incredibly complicated.

I played video games for about an hour, but eventually got bored with trying to save people, and decided to text Hazel. I grabbed my phone off of the coffee table in front of me, and tapped out a message to her. Then I erased it. This went on for a while, until I realized that I really didn't have the guts to do it. I went back to playing videogames for a couple of minutes.

My phone rang, and I anxiously grabbed at it. It was Isaac. I sighed, but answered it.

"Hey Isaac." I said, and heard a snort come from the other side.

"Disappointed much?" He asked, with a laugh.

"I just wish Hazel would call."

"She's the only one who's made the first move since you met."

"I gave her my number-"

"Doesn't count." I could basically hear his eyes rolling from over the phone.

"I just. I really like her." I pushed myself up from the couch, and went back to the kitchen, where I peeled a banana, and started to eat it.

"I noticed."

"She has these beautiful green eyes. They seem to bore into your soul. That sounds kind of creepy, but, in reality, it's amazing. And she has such an adorable laugh. Like little fairy's pooping."

"Fairy's pooping?"

"Yes." I chewed another mouthful of banana.

"That doesn't really sound like a compliment."

"It is. I swear to god Isaac. Haven't you ever heard those phone ringtones?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, don't they sound like a fairy pooping?" Isaac snorted, and I grinned. "That's what it sounds like. Bells and fairy poop."

Isaac and I agreed to meet at a movie theatre in an hour. He wanted to enjoy the things he could see while he still had two eyes. We were going to go and see every movie there, including the really horrible ones for two year olds. I looked around for my keys, and found them on the kitchen counter.

I picked up Isaac, and we drove to the theatre, he was talking about how he was worried that his girlfriend would break up with him. I told him otherwise, but I didn't believe it myself.

The movies were all extraordinarily horrible.

When I got home, I decided to continue reading _an imperial affliction. _Once I passed oh, page one hundred twenty, it got really interesting, and I couldn't stop reading. I read late into the night, checking my phone every ten minutes to see if Hazel had called me.


	4. Chapter 4

_I have decided that I will post every Friday._

_The fault in our stars belongs to John Green._

Holy crap.

An imperial affliction is amazing.

It's also very long. I've been trying to finish it for hours, and it has pulled me into its clutches. I know that I had started to read it because Hazel had told me to, but I don't regret it in the least. I poured over it, but I keep on checking my phone every ten minutes, to see if Hazel had called.

Finally, I heard a ding.

Price of Dawn review: Too many bodies. Not enough adjectives. How's AIA?

I grinned, and typed back as fast as I could.

As I recall, you promised to CALL when you finished the book, not text.

Two seconds later, the phone rang. "Hazel Grace," I said, and grinned.

"So have you read it?" I rolled my eyes.

"Well, I haven't finished it. It's six hundred fifty-one pages long and I've had twenty-four hours."

"How far are you?"

"Four fifty-three."

"And?"

"I will withhold judgment until I finish. However, I will say that I'm feeling a bit embarrassed to have given you The Price of Dawn."

"Don't be. I'm already on Requiem for Mayhem."

"A sparkling addition to the series. So, okay, is the tulip guy a crook? I'm getting a bad vibe from him."

"No spoilers," she said, teasing. I puffed out my cheeks, then let the breath out. A habit I did when I was frustrated.

"If he is anything other than a total gentleman, I'm going to gouge his eyes out."

"So you're into it."

"Withholding judgment! When can I see you?"

"Certainly not until you finish An Imperial Affliction." I rolled my eyes. She was obviously flirting, or at least I hope she was.

"Then I'd better hang up and start reading."

"You'd better," I grinned, and ended the call.

I ran my hands over my face, unable to stop the smile from taking over. I really liked Hazel. I really, _really, _liked Hazel. I spent the rest of the night, and most of the next morning finishing _An Imperial Affliction._

But it didn't end.

Oh god. Tell me that's not how it ends.

I frantically texted Hazel.

Tell me my copy is missing the last twenty pages or something.

Hazel Grace, tell me I have not reached the end of this book.

OH MY GOD DO THEY GET MARRIED OR NOT OH MY GOD WHAT IS THIS

I guess Anna died and so it just ends? CRUEL. Call me when you can. Hope all's okay.

Isaac called me about ten minutes later, and all I could hear was him sobbing. Of course I immediately went over to his house to help. I picked him up, and there were tears streaming down his face. He couldn't talk until after we got back to my house.

"She-she broke up…" Was all he could get out, then he exploded into tears again. We played video games for a while, and he was okay, until he met a character named Monica in the game, and off he went.

Hazel finally called, after almost an hour after I had texted her. I would have picked up on the first ring, but I didn't want to seem desperate. But I was, so I'm not sure why I'm trying to keep it up. "Hazel Grace," I said, and grinned.

"So welcome to the sweet torture of reading An Imperial—" She stopped, and Isaac started another wave of sobbing. "Are you okay?" she asked, slowly.

"I'm grand," I answered, with another grin. "I am, however, with Isaac, who seems to be decompensating." I turned to Isaac. "Dude. Dude. Does Support Group Hazel make this better or worse? Isaac. Focus. On. Me." I pointed to myself, and after a minute, he nodded. "Can you meet us at my house in, say, twenty minutes?"

"Sure," She said, and hung up.

I could hear Hazel come in my front door, and the muffeled voices of my parents and her conversing, but Isaacc pretty much drowned it out.

"Hazel Grace," I said, once I could hear her footsteps. They were slow and akward. She must have difficulty going down stairs with her tank. I turned to Isaac. "Isaac, Hazel from Support Group is coming downstairs." I then yelled at her. "Hazel, a gentle reminder: Isaac is in the midst of a psychotic episode."

Hazel came in, and I can only imagine what she saw. Isaac and I were playing the price of dawn, and he was sobbing. His face was contorted, and he didn't look at Hazel as she came in. I looked up, trying my best to retain composure.

"How are you, Hazel?" I asked, smiling my most dashing smile.

"I'm okay," She said, questioningly. "Isaac?" He didn't respond, just kept on crying. I glanced at Hazel, and had to take a small breath. She looked very beautiful, but also very tired. "You look nice," I said, trying to be nonchalant. She glanced down at her dress, confused. "Girls think they're only allowed to wear dresses on formal occasions, but I like a woman who says, you know, I'm going over to see a boy who is having a nervous breakdown, a boy whose connection to the sense of sight itself is tenuous, and gosh dang it, I am going to wear a dress for him ."

She smiled, and came over to stand between our chairs. "And yet," she mused. "Isaac won't so much as glance over at me. Too in love with Monica, I suppose," Isaac sobbed again, and I cringed.

"Bit of a touchy subject. Isaac, I don't know about you, but I have the vague sense that we are being outflanked." I turned to Hazel again. "Isaac and Monica are no longer a going concern, but he doesn't want to talk about it. He just wants to cry and play Counterinsurgence 2: The Price of

Dawn."

She shrugged. "Fair enough,"

I turned to Isaac. "Isaac, I feel a growing concern about our position. If you agree, head over to that power station, and I'll cover you." Isaac ran toward the power station. I turned back to Hazel. "Anyway, it doesn't hurt to talk to him. If you have any sage words of feminine advice."

"I actually think his response is probably appropriate," She said as Isaac fired his gun at a virtual man who had peeked over a pick up truck.

"Pain demands to be felt," I said, and smiled slightly, knowing Hazel would know it was a quote from an imperial affliction. "You're sure there's no one behind us?" I asked Isaac, and raised my eyebrows as bullets shot over our heads. "Oh, goddamn it, Isaac," I said, growling. "I don't mean to criticize you in your moment of great weakness, but you've allowed us to be outflanked, and now there's nothing between the terrorists and the school." Isaac took off, running awkwardly through the streets.

"You could go over the bridge and circle back," Hazel said.

I sighed. "Sadly, the bridge is already under insurgent control due to questionable strategizing by my bereft cohort."

"Me?" Isaac said, finally speaking up. "Me?! You're the one who suggested we hole up in the freaking power station."

I looked away from the screen and grinned at Isaac. "I knew you could talk, buddy. Now let's

go save some fictional schoolchildren." We ran into the schoolhouse, and shot the enemy, one by one.

"Why do they want to get into the school?" Hazel asked, confused.

"They want the kids as hostages," I said, and moved my hands as quickly as I could. "Get it get it get it," I whispered, and then noticed a grenade arc over the screen. "Grenade! Grenade!" I rolled against the door, and Isaac dropped his controller, frustrated.

"If the bastards can't take hostages, they just kill them and claim we did it."

"Cover me!" I yelled, and Isaac fumbled with his controller. He finally started to shoot the enemy. "YOU CAN'T KILL MAX MAYHEM!" And I dove over a grenade, I died, but saved everyone else. I grinned, and put a cigarette in my mouth. "Saved the kids,"

Hazel rolled her eyes. "Temporarily,".

"All salvation is temporary," I shot back, frowning. "I bought them a minute. Maybe that's the minute that buys them an hour, which is the hour that buys them a year. No one's gonna buy them forever, Hazel Grace, but my life bought them a minute. And that's not nothing."

"Whoa, okay," She said, putting her hands in front of her. "We're just talking about pixels."

I shrugged, and looked at Isaac, who was walking onscreen. "Another go at the mission, corporal?" Isaac shook his head no. He leaned over me, and said hoarsely to Hazel, "She didn't want to do it after."

"She didn't want to dump a blind guy," She said, her lips pressed together with pity.

Isaac nodded. "She said she couldn't handle it. I'm about to lose my eyesight and she can't handle it."

"I'm sorry" She said, and sounded genuine. He wiped his sopping face with a sleeve.

"It's unacceptable," He said, the tears still streaming down his face.. "It's totally

unacceptable."

"Well, to be fair," She said, "I mean, she probably can't handle it. Neither can you, but she doesn't have to handle it. And you do."

"I kept saying 'always' to her today, 'always always always,' and she just kept talking over me and not saying it back. It was like I was already gone, you know? 'Always' was a promise! How can you just break the promise?" He let out a racking sob.

"Sometimes people don't understand the promises they're making when they make them," She said, softly.

Isaac looked at her sternly. "Right, of course. But you keep the promise anyway. That's what love is. Love is keeping the promise anyway. Don't you believe in true love?"

There was a silence from Hazel, who looked down at her shoes. "Well, I believe in true love," Isaac said. "And I love her. And she promised. She promised me always." Isaac stood up, taking a step towards Hazel, and we watched as extreme rage settled over his face. I put out a cautioning hand.

"Isaac," I said, quietly.

"What?"

"You look a little . . . Pardon the double entendre, my friend, but there's something a little worrisome in your eyes." I saw Isaac get that look in his eyes- a violent, angry look. I knew what was coming. Isaac started kicking my chair, which flew onto my bed.

"Here we go," I said, and rolled my eyes towards Hazel, who was looking at Isaac with confusion.

Isaac ran after the chair, tackling it. "Yes," I yelled. "Get it. Kick the shit out of that chair!" Isaac continued, and then grabbed a pillow and started banging it against the wall. I looked over at Hazel, and smiled slightly at her worried expression. "I can't stop thinking about that book."

"I know, right?"

"He never said what happens to the other characters?"

"No, He moved to Amsterdam, which makes me think maybe he is writing a sequel featuring the Dutch Tulip Man, but he hasn't published anything. He's never interviewed. He doesn't seem to be online. I've written him a bunch of letters asking what happens to everyone, but he never responds. So . . . yeah." I looked over at Isaac, who had started sobbing again.

"Hold on," I said to Hazel, and walked over to Isaac, grabbing him by his shoulders "Dude, pillows don't break. Try something that breaks." Isaac reached for one of my old basketball trophies. This would be a good way of disposing of them.

"Yes," I said, grinning. Isaac smashed it on the floor, and it flew apart. I cheered him on.. "Yes!" Isaac smiled slightly. "Get it!"

I turned back to Hazel. "I've been looking for a way to tell my father that I actually sort of hate basketball, and I think we've found it." Isaac kept on smashing the old trophies, screaming, and sobbing. Finally, he collapsed onto the chards of plastic that now covered the floor. I stepped towards him, looking at the damage. "Feel better?" I asked.

"No," Isaac mumbled through tears, breathing heavily. I smiled sadly.

"That's the thing about pain," I said, then glanced at Hazel, who was looking wide-eyed at the mess. "It demands to be felt."


	5. Chapter 5

_All Ideas were created by John Green_

I didn't call Hazel for a week.

I know that technically it was my turn to call, but I also know that I'm quite afraid to call. I feel like when I call her, she won't pick up the phone, and then, somehow, the whole thing will fall apart.

Another reason I was afraid to call her was because I had emailed Peter Van Houten, and _had actually gotten a letter back. _I didn't know if she would like it- I mean, she seemed so connected to this book, and she had never gotten a letter back, and I had and, Ahhhhhhh.

I hope she won't be angry that I had gotten a letter from Van Houten- Her favorite author. I really want her to like me.

I really, really do.

But finally, after the whole week of indecision, I finally called her. My parents were out on the town, so I was lying in my bed, pressing the call button for her, and then immediately canceling it. This continued for about an hour, until I finally worked up the courage to actually do it.

The phone rang,

And rang,

And then. The beep. She hadn't answered. I threw the phone onto the ground, then flipped over, so my face was covered by the bed. I sighed. Suddenly, the phone started buzzing again. I glanced over at it, then noticing that it was Hazel, scrambled for it. I cleared my throat.

"Hazel Grace," I said.

"Hi," She said quietly. "How are you?"

"Grand," I said, grinning. "I have been wanting to call you on a nearly minutely basis, but I have been waiting until I could form a coherent thought in re An Imperial Affliction."

"And?" She asked, and sucked in a breath.

"I think it's, like. Reading it, I just kept feeling like, like."

"Like?" She asked, and let out a small giggle. God. I didn't think that girls actually giggled, but they did, and it was adorable.

"Like it was a gift?" I asked, hesitant. "Like you'd given me something important."

"Oh," She said quietly. Damn it. I made a mistake.

"That's cheesy," I said quickly. "I'm sorry."

"No," She said, and I could hear her smiling. "No. Don't apologize."

"But it doesn't end." I said, and she let out a small sigh.

"Yeah,"

"Torture. I totally get it, like, I get that she died or whatever."

"Right, I assume so," She said.

"And okay, fair enough, but there is this unwritten contract between author and reader and I think not ending your book kind of violates hat contract."

"I don't know," She said, like she was defending Peter. "That's part of what I like about the book in some ways. It portrays death truthfully. You die in the middle of your life, in the middle of a sentence. But I do—God, I do really want to know what happens to everyone else. That's what I asked him in my letters. But he, yeah, he never answers." She sounded so sincere. She _really _cared about that book.

"Right. You said he is a recluse?"

"Correct."

"Impossible to track down."

"Correct."

"Utterly unreachable," I said, starting to get excited.

"Unfortunately so," She said, and sighed.

I scrambled around for my computer, and opened my email, and started to read the letter I had gotten back. "'Dear Mr. Waters,'" I said, starting without an introduction. "'I am writing to thank you for your electronic correspondence, received via Ms. Vliegenthart this sixth of April, from the United States of America, insofar as geography can be said to exist in our triumphantly digitized contemporaneity.'"

"Augustus, what the hell?" She said. Shit. I messed up. Shit shit shit.

"He has an assistant," I said, trying to cover up my mistake. "Lidewij Vliegenthart. I found her. I emailed her. She gave him the email. He responded via her email account."

"Okay, okay. Keep reading." I let out a relieved sigh. Maybe she wasn't going to kill me.

"'My response is being written with ink and paper in the glorious tradition of our ancestors and then transcribed by Ms. Vliegenthart into a series of 1s and 0s to travel through the insipid web which has lately ensnared our species, so I apologize for any errors or omissions that may result. Given the entertainment bacchanalia at the disposal of young men and women of your generation, I am grateful to anyone anywhere who sets aside the hours necessary to read my little book. But I am particularly indebted to you, sir, both for your kind words about An Imperial Affliction and for taking the time to tell me that the book, and here I quote you directly, "meant a great deal" to you. This comment, however, leads me to wonder: What do you mean by meant? Given the final futility of our struggle, is the fleeting jolt of meaning that art gives us valuable? Or is the only value in passing the time as comfortably as possible? What should a story seek to emulate, Augustus? A ringing alarm? A call to arms? A morphine drip? Of course, like all interrogation of the universe, this line of inquiry inevitably reduces us to asking what it means to be human and whether—to borrow a phrase from the angst-encumbered sixteen-year-olds you no doubt revile—there is a point to it all. I fear there is not, my friend, and that you would receive scant encouragement from further encounters with my writing. But to answer your question: No, I have not written anything else, nor will I. I do not feel that continuing to share my thoughts with readers would benefit either them or me. Thank you again for your generous email. Yours most sincerely, Peter Van Houten, via Lidewij Vliegenthart.'"

"Wow," She said, letting out a puff of air. "Are you making this up?"

"Hazel Grace, could I, with my meager intellectual capacities, make up a letter from Peter Van Houten featuring phrases like 'our triumphantly digitized contemporaneity'?"

"You could not," She answered, and giggled again. (Still adorable.) "Can I, can I have the email address?"

"Of course," I said, just relieved that she had liked the letter.

I flopped down on the bed again, and grinned, as hard as I could. I really liked Hazel. After about an hour- which she had presumably spent writing a letter to Peter Van Houten. We talked about how An Imperial Affliction had changed us, and then she read me the poem he had used for the title in her smooth- as- silk voice.

"There's a certain Slant of light,

Winter Afternoons –

That oppresses, like the Heft

Of Cathedral Tunes –

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –

We can find no scar,

But internal difference –

Where the Meanings, are –

None may teach it – Any –

'Tis the seal Despair –

An imperial affliction

Sent us of the Air –

When it comes, the Landscape listens –

Shadows – hold their breath –

When it goes, 'tis like the Distance

On the look of Death –"

Beautiful.

"You have a good voice for reading. You don't pause to long for the breaks. Oh! The sixth Price of Dawn book, The Blood Approves, begins with a quote from a poem." I searched for the book for a minute. Finally I found it, and read the poem to her. "'Say your life broke down. The last good kiss / You had was years ago.'"

"Not bad," She said, and let out a small laugh. Full of laughter, that girl. "Bit pretentious. I believe Max Mayhem would refer to that as 'sissy shit.'"

"Yes, with his teeth gritted, no doubt. God, Mayhem grits his teeth a lot in these books. He's definitely going to get TMJ, if he survives all this combat." I sat for a minuet, thinking about her laugh, and how much I liked her. "When was the last good kiss you had?"

She waited for a while, "Years ago," She said finally. "You?"

"I had a few good kisses with my ex-girlfriend, Caroline Mathers." I said, and sighed.

"Years ago?"

"The last one was just less than a year ago."

"What happened?"

"During the kiss?"

"No, with you and Caroline."

"Oh," I said, and considered not telling her. "Caroline is no longer suffering from personhood."

"Oh," She said. Like she regretted asking.

"Yeah," I said.

"I'm sorry," She said. I'd known plenty of dead people, of course. But I'd never dated one. I couldn't even imagine it, really.

"Not your fault, Hazel Grace. We're all just side effects, right?" I said, and snorted.

"'Barnacles on the container ship of consciousness,'" She said.

"Okay," I said regretfully. "I gotta go to sleep. It's almost one."

"Okay," She said.

"Okay," I said.

She giggled and said, "Okay." I felt kind of like she was actually with me. Like she was right there, talking to me. Maybe it was the giggle. She was like a glass of soda that was bubbling over.

"Okay," I said, after a while. "Maybe okay will be our always."

"Okay," She said, and giggled again.

I finally had to hang up. I had school tomorrow, but I really didn't want to go.

I went to scool, and went through the motions of life. Hazel and I talked every night- she was worried that Peter van Houten hadn't replied to her email. Then two days later, Isaac had to go into surgery to get his other eye removed. I waited for him, and then when he finished, I texted Hazel.

Isaac out of surgery. It went well. He's officially NEC. NEC meant "no evidence of cancer." I waited for a minute, and then texted again.

I mean, he's blind. So that's unfortunate. She didn't reply, so I gave up. I went to go and check on Isaac. He was awake, but only a little. He mumbled something towards me, something that sounded like "I hate my life" But I'm not sure, so I'd like to think it wasn't that.

Hazel called me the next morning, and read me the long awaited letter back from Van Houten.

"Dear Ms. Lancaster,

I fear your faith has been misplaced—but then, faith usually is. I cannot answer your questions, at least not in writing, because to write out such answers would constitute a sequel to An Imperial Affliction, which you might publish or otherwise share on the network that has replaced the brains of your generation. There is the telephone, but then you might record the conversation. Not that I don't trust you, of course, but I don't trust you. Alas, dear Hazel, I could never answer such questions except in person, and you are there, while I am here. That noted, I must confess that the unexpected receipt of your correspondence via Ms. Vliegenthart has delighted me: What a wondrous thing to know that I made something useful to you—even if that book seems so distant from me that I feel it was written by a different man altogether. (The author of that novel was so thin, so frail, so comparatively optimistic!) Should you find yourself in Amsterdam, however, please do pay a visit at your leisure. I am usually home. I would even allow you a peek at my grocery lists.

Yours most sincerely,

Peter Van Houten"

"Wow," I said, and raised my eyebrows. It was nine in the morning, but I wasn't planning to go to school- I was with Isaac.

"I know, right?" She said excitedly, and then, a little more forlornly- "How am I going to get to Amsterdam?"

"Do you have a Wish?" I asked.

"No," She said, sighing. "I used my Wish pre-Miracle."

"What'd you do?"

"I was thirteen,"

"Not Disney," I said darkly.

Silence.

"You did not go to Disney World."

Silence.

"Hazel GRACE!" I yelled. "You did not use your one dying Wish to go to Disney World with your parents."

"Also Epcot Center," She mumbled, ashamed.

"Oh, my God," I said, and laughed. "I can't believe I have a crush on a girl with such cliché wishes."

"I was thirteen," Then a pause. "Shouldn't you be in school or something?"

"I'm playing hooky to hang out with Isaac, but he's sleeping, so I'm in the atrium doing geometry."

"How's he doing?" She asked.

"I can't tell if he's just not ready to confront the seriousness of his disability or if he really does care more about getting dumped by Monica, but he won't talk about anything else."

"Yeah. How long's he gonna be in the hospital?"

"Few days. Then he goes to this rehab or something for a while, but he gets to sleep at home, I think."

"Sucks," She said.

"I see his mom. I gotta go." She was walking towards me, that exhausted look in her eyes that you get from your kid having cancer.

"Okay," She said.

"Okay," I answered, and smiled.

Isaac's mom and I talked for a while, and she eventually fell asleep. I left after that.

While I was walking home, I had an idea. I still have my wish, and I really like Hazel, and maybe, just maybe, I could use my wish to bring her to Amsterdam.

I set up the whole thing, I called the Genies, who said it would be fine, and her parents, who agreed to it, and said that they'd keep it a secret. Now I just had to surprise her. I eventually settled on going to her porch on Saturday, with a bunch of Amsterdam themed things. I sat there for a while, until I decided to call her.

"Are you currently at your house?" I asked.

"Um, no," She said, and laughed.

"That was a trick question. I knew the answer, because I am currently at your house."

"Oh. Um. Well, we are on our way, I guess?"

"Awesome. See you soon."

I sat on her stoop until she came home, and when I saw her car, I pushed myself up, grinning, and adgusted my shirt, now extremely nervous about how I looked.

"Wanna go on a picnic?" I asked, and she nodded shyly. Her dad walked up to me and shook my hand.

"Is that a Rik Smits jersey?" He asked, surprised.

"Indeed it is."

"God, I loved that guy," He said, and then conceded a long and very boring conversation that eventually turned to him giving me 'talk'

"You know Hazel can't-"He faded off, but I knew what he meant. "Well, I know she'd going to Amsterdam, but you better be careful. She can't do things like you can- She can't run around, or even walk far distances." I nodded again, and touched my hand to my prosthetic.

"Just- just be careful, okay?" He said. There was a silence, and then he continued talking.

"So you met Hazel at Support Group."

"Yes, sir. This is a lovely house you've got. I like your artwork." Hazel walked in then.

"Thank you, Augustus." He mom said, and smiled.

"You're a survivor yourself, then?" Her dad asked again.

"I am." I said, and sighed. "I didn't cut this fella off for the sheer unadulterated pleasure of it, although it is an excellent weight-loss strategy. Legs are heavy!"

"And how's your health now?" Her dad asked.

"NEC for fourteen months."

"That's wonderful. The treatment options these days—it really is remarkable." Her mom gushed.

"I know. I'm lucky."

"You have to understand that Hazel is still sick, Augustus, and will be for the rest of her life. She'll want to keep up with you, but her lungs—" He said, going back to the former topic.

And then Hazel walked out. She looked even more beautiful than before.

"So where are you going?" asked her mom, and I stood up, and whispered to her- "I'm going to tell her about Amsterdam." I held up a finger too my lips. "Shh. It's a secret."

Her mom smiled. "You've got your phone?" She asked, turning to Hazel, who held up her phone, and then turned towards the door. I walked over to her, and offered my arm.

"You nearly charmed the pants off my mom." She said, and looked down at the floor as we walked out the door. I helped her into the car, and she sat, leaning forward.

"Yeah, and your dad is a Smits fan, which helps. You think they liked me?"

"Sure they did. Who cares, though? They're just parents."

"They're your parents," I said, and glanced at her, smiling. "Plus, I like being liked. Is that crazy?"

"Well, you don't have to rush to hold doors open or smother me in compliments for me to like you." I grinned at the compliment, and slammed on the brakes as we came to a red light. Hazel flew forward, and took a long breath that rattled her whole body. I glanced over at her, worried, and flipped open the center console, taking out one of my cigarettes.

"Do you ever throw them away?" She asked me, looking vehemently at the cigarette in my mouth.

"One of the many benefits of not smoking is that packs of cigarettes last forever," I answered around it. "I've had this one for almost a year. A few of them are broken near the filters, but I think this pack could easily get me to my eighteenth birthday." I took the cigarette out of my mouth, holding it between my fingers, and looked at it, then put it back in my mouth.

"So, okay," I said, and looked over at her. "Okay. Name some things that you never see in Indianapolis."

"Um. Skinny adults," She said, cracking a smile.

I couldn't stop from laughing. "Good. Keep going."

"Mmm, beaches. Family-owned restaurants. Topography."

"All excellent examples of things we lack. Also, culture."

"Yeah, we are a bit short on culture," She said slowly, and then realized where we were going. "Are we going to the museum?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Oh, are we going to that park or whatever?"

I sighed and looked down. She probably knew about Amsterdam. She can probably see right through me. She had probably heard me whisper to her mom or something. "Yes, we are going to that park or whatever. You've figured it out, haven't you?"

"Um, figured what out?"

"Nothing." I said, and grinned.

There's a park behind the art museum called _Funky Bones. _It's a bunch of… bones. And the artist is Dutch. As I said. The whole endeavor is all about Amsterdam. We walked over this hill, well, more of just a mound of dirt. Hazel started breathing heavily, and I slowed down. She was gripping her cannula, but was looking at the sculpture in amazement. I had to hop slightly to get down to where we were going to sit. I glanced down at my prosthetic, then back up at Hazel, who was lost in thought.

"Funky Bones," I said, and she looked over at me. "Created by Joep Van Lieshout."

"Sounds Dutch."

"He is," I said, and grinned at her. "So is Rik Smits. So are tulips" I pulled off of my backpack, and set out a bunch of orange picnic stuff. Hazel looked curiously as the set up.

"What's with all the orange?" She asked, looking kind of excided.

I grinned and helped her sit down. "National color of the Netherlands, of course. You remember William of Orange and everything?"

"He wasn't on the GED test." She smiled, and bit her lip.

"Sandwich?" I asked, holding out the half.

"Let me guess," She said, and grabbed it.

"Dutch cheese. And tomato. The tomatoes are from Mexico. Sorry." I said, and she rolled her eyes.

"You're always such a disappointment, Augustus. Couldn't you have at least gotten orange tomatoes?"

We sat in silence. She looking at all the kids, and I was looking at her. She ate slowly, like it was kind of difficult. When I finished eating, I held a cigarette in between my fingers.

"Two things I love about this sculpture," I said, and flicked my cigarette. "First, the bones are just far enough apart that if you're a kid, you cannot resist the urge to jump between them. Like, you just have to jump from rib cage to skull. Which means that, second, the sculpture essentially forces children to play on bones. The symbolic resonances are endless, Hazel Grace." She looked up at me.

"You do love symbols," She said, and looked down at the ground, kind of excided.

"Right, about that. You are probably wondering why you are eating a bad cheese sandwich and drinking orange juice and why I am wearing the jersey of a Dutchman who played a sport I have come to loathe."

"It has crossed my mind," She said, and looked back up at me.

"Hazel Grace, like so many children before you—and I say this with great affection—you spent your Wish hastily, with little care for the consequences. The Grim Reaper was staring you in the face and the fear of dying with your Wish still in your proverbial pocket, ungranted, led you to rush toward the first Wish you could think of, and you, like so many others, chose the cold and artificial pleasures of the theme park." I turned toward her as I said this, and I saw her face start to glow.

"I actually had a great time on that trip. I met Goofy and Minn—"

"I am in the midst of a soliloquy! I wrote this out and memorized it and if you interrupt me I will completely screw it up," I said, looking at her, exasperated. "Please to be eating your sandwich and listening." She took a bite and smiled at me. "Okay, where was I?"

"The artificial pleasures."

I put my cigarette back into the case. "Right, the cold and artificial pleasures of the theme park. But let me submit that the real heroes of the Wish Factory are the young men and women who wait like Vladimir and Estragon wait for Godot and good Christian girls wait for marriage. These young heroes wait stoically and without complaint for their one true Wish to come along. Sure, it may never come along, but at least they can rest easily in the grave knowing that they've done their little part to preserve the integrity of the Wish as an idea." I looked over at her. She looked back, curious and excited. "But then again, maybe it will come along: Maybe you'll realize that your one true Wish is to visit the brilliant Peter Van Houten in his Amsterdamian exile, and you will be glad indeed to have saved your Wish."

I stopped talking, and waited for her to realize what I meant. "But I didn't save my Wish," She said slowly.

"Ah," I said, and paused. "But I saved mine."

"Really?" She asked, her face lighting up again, but she still seemed kind of confused. I wasn't really wish eligible.

"I got it in exchange for the leg," I said, and looked down at it, then back at her. There was light shining from behind her, so I had to squint, and it made her look like she was surrounded in a halo of light.

"Now, I'm not going to give you my Wish or anything. But I also have an interest in meeting Peter Van Houten, and it wouldn't make sense to meet him without the girl who introduced me to his book."

"It definitely wouldn't," She said, grinning.

"So I talked to the Genies, and they are in total agreement. They said Amsterdam is lovely in the beginning of May. They proposed leaving May third and returning May seventh."

"Augustus, really?" She asked, and a grin took over her face. I wanted to kiss her right then- she seemed so happy, and she was happy with _me. _I put a finger to her cheek, and was ready to- but she tensed, so I didn't. "Augustus," She said softly. "Really. You don't have to do this."

"Sure I do," I said, softly. "I found my Wish."

"God, you're the best," She told me, and surrounded me in a hug. She was warm and alive. I blushed.

"I bet you say that to all the boys who finance your international travel," I mumbled into her shoulder.


	6. Chapter 6

_sorry about how short this is. I know that the next chapter will be big. _

_All ideas belong to john green._

I spent the rest of my day lying in bed or playing video games. I couldn't really focus on anything- I mean, Hazel had said _yes_. She had even talked to her doctor, and her mom had to go, which was fine by me, but I was still going to Amsterdam with Hazel. Right now, I'm sitting on my bed, and looking at my computer. I'm researching flying- I've never been up in the air before.

What if I throw up?

What if I throw up of hazel?

These were the kind of questions that plagued me.

The day afterwards, Isaac called me.

"Hey Gus. Can you come over? I- I need some help."

"Sure. Be there in a moment."

Isaac lived with his mother about two blocks away from me. It was close enough that I could walk there, so I did. I let myself in- his mother's car was not in the driveway, and the door was unlocked, so Isaac must be the only one home.

It took me a while to find him.

He was sitting on his loft bed, which he had apparently climbed up to by using the ladder- which was now on the floor.

The fact that he was blind and had a loft bed was not a very good combination.

"It fell." He said, his shoulders slumped. I grinned and pushed it back up to where he was sitting, then I climbed up it myself.

"Maybe you shouldn't sleep in a loft." I said, and he shrugged.

"I just want some way to feel like my old self, you know? I mean, If I can climb down this while I'm blind, that means there us hope, right?" I nodded. I understood. When I had to get my leg removed, I had continued to play basketball, until I realized that I didn't like it, and it was impossible.

I helped Isaac get down, but it took a few minutes. We then went to play video games on his blind person gaming system. It was basically just a normal gaming system, except it could be voice controlled.

"Hazel said yes to Amsterdam." I said, and Isaac smiled slightly.

"Really? I knew she would. I mean- you are very good looking. Not that I would knoe though." He said, and gestured to his eyes, cracking a grin.

I wonder if blind people know that they are smiling. I mean, they can feel it, but how do they tell when to?

When I got back to my house, I went down to the basement and did (Or at least tried to do) homework. I was supposed to be finishing _Ulysses, _But I'm not that good of a reader.

My phone was sitting next to my bed, and since I wasn't expecting any calls, I jolted upwards when it buzzed. It was a text from Hazel.

'Hi, so okay, I don't know if you'll understand this but I can't kiss you or anything. Not that you'd necessarily want to, but I can't. When I try to look at you like that, all I see is what I'm going to put you through. Maybe that doesn't make sense to you.

Anyway, sorry.'

I could hear my heart stop for a minute. I stared at the screen blankly. I mean, I wasn't going to force her into kissing me, but I sure as hell wished that I could. But I'm not angry. I understand the feeling of being a bomb, so I was just going to rejoice in her company. It was enough for me.

I responded-

'Okay.'

A few seconds later-

'Okay.'

'Oh, my God, stop flirting with me!'

'Okay.

I smiled.

'I was kidding, Hazel Grace. I understand. (But we both know that okay is a very flirty word. Okay is BURSTING with sensuality.)'

'Sorry.'

I went to bed, climbing underneath the covers and pulling them over my head. I felt safer that way- not like I had anything outside of me to worry about.

But inside of me, my hip had just started aching.


	7. Chapter 7

_TFIOS belongs to John Green_

I should explain.

When a normal person's hip starts aching, it's because they did too many pushups, or ran too far. But because I had cancer, when I have an aching hip, it means I might die.

I woke up in the middle of the night, the blankets still pulled over my head. My parents sleep right above me, so they can hear me whenever I do anything, because of the air conditioning units that connect our rooms. This could be good and bad, like when I wanted some privacy, or when I needed their help.

Unfortunately, right now was the latter.

My leg and hip felt like a billion atomic bombs had just been dropped on them, so I couldn't walk. I could barely make a noise, it hurt so much. But I did make a noise. Kind of a strangled yelp, and they heard it.

They rushed down the stairs, and my father carried me out of the house and into the car.

I don't really remember exactly what happened next- something with bright lights and a hospital, but I do remember seeing a scan of my body that showed that I was literally made of cancer.

I'm going to die.

I sat in the white room, my head in my hands. Not crying, just… panicking I guess. My parents were outside of the door, and I could see them through the glass, talking to the doctor and gesturing to me. Eventually, they came back in.

"You're going to start chemo tomorrow." My father said, and I looked up.

"I don't want to." I said, my voice flat. He looked at me sternly.

"You are going to start chemo tomorrow." He repeated, his voice sharp. My mother looked at me, teary eyed, and nodded. She reached out for my hand.

"You can do this." She said, her voice wavering. I sighed.

After we had walked into the waiting room, and sat on those grey plastic chairs, my mother turned to me and held my hand again. She does that a lot. My dad was a few feet away, talking to a nurse about insurance.

"Honey, I have some bad news." She said, and I looked up at her.

"I know. I'm going to die." I said blankly, and she didn't argue like she usually does. She just sighed.

"I didn't want to tell you this with all of the other bad news, but honey…" She stopped and swallowed. "You know the nice girl you like so much? Hazel?" I nodded, fear starting to trickle down my spine. "She's been put into urgent care. There's a chance that she's going to die tonight." The fear that had been trickling before was now going through me like Niagara falls.

My mother brought me to the waiting room outside of where Hazel was being kept, and I asked if I could go in and see her.

No.

I begged and I pleaded, even telling them that I'm dying.

No.

So I settled down to wait. My mom sat next to me, but checked her watch every five minutes- she had a full time job she needed to get back too. So I told her to leave, I'd been fine. I'd call if there was a problem. She frowned, and handed me an envelope, and then she left, looking back over her shoulder.

I opened the envelope, which was addressed from Amsterdam.

Dear Mr. Waters,

I am in receipt of your electronic mail dated the 14th of April and duly impressed by the Shakespearean complexity of your tragedy. Everyone in this tale has a rock-solid hamartia: hers, that she is so sick; yours, that you are so well. Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius note, "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves." Easy enough to say when you're a Roman nobleman (or Shakespeare!), but there is no shortage of fault to be found amid our stars. While we're on the topic of old Will's insufficiencies, your writing about young Hazel reminds me of the Bard's Fifty-fifth sonnet, which of course begins, "Not marble, nor the gilded monuments / Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; / But you shall shine more bright in these contents / Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time." (Off topic, but: What a slut time is. She screws everybody.) It's a fine poem but a deceitful one: We do indeed remember Shakespeare's powerful rhyme, but what do we remember about the person it commemorates? Nothing. We're pretty sure he was male; everything else is guesswork. Shakespeare told us precious little of the man whom he entombed in his linguistic sarcophagus. (Witness also that when we talk about literature, we do so in the present tense. When we speak of the dead, we are not so kind.) You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect. (Full disclosure: I am not the first to make this observation. cf, the MacLeish poem "Not Marble, Nor the Gilded Monuments," which contains the heroic line "I shall say you will die and none will remember you.") I digress, but here's the rub: The dead are visible only in the terrible lidless eye of memory. The living, thank heaven, retain the ability to surprise and to disappoint. Your Hazel is alive, Waters, and you mustn't impose your will upon another's decision, particularly a decision arrived at thoughtfully. She wishes to spare you pain, and you should let her. You may not find young Hazel's logic persuasive, but I have trod through this vale of tears longer than you, and from where I'm sitting, she's not the lunatic.

Yours truly,

Peter Van Houten

About twenty minutes later, the nurse who was attending to Hazel left, so I slipped in behind her, and went over to sit by Hazel. I held her cold fingers in my hand, and watched fluid drip out of her lungs.

"I'm going to die Hazel." I whispered to her, her sleeping ears not hearing a thing. "Please don't die too." I said, and let go of her hand. The nurse walked back into the room and noticed me, whispering angrily and shoving me out of the door. I went to go and sit in the waiting room again, and tried to focus on reading one of the _Highlights _magazines, but I couldn't.

After what seemed like an eternity later, Hazel's dad walked out, and smiled at me. "She's going to make it." He said, standing over me. "And she wants to see you now." I nodded and stood up, the ach in my hip intensifying for a millisecond. I followed him back to her room, and couldn't keep from smiling when I saw her sitting up in bed. Hazel smiled back, slowly, and very slightly, but she still smiled.

I plopped down on the chair next to her, unable to stop smiling. It was like everything in the world that was bad was gone. Her parents left, and she looked up at me, her eyes meeting mine slowly, like it was difficult for her.

"I missed you," I said with a grin, and leaned forward. She looked happy and sad at the same time.

"Thanks for not trying to see me when I looked like hell." She said, her voice quiet.

"To be fair, you still look pretty bad." I said, and she laughed.

"I missed you, too." She said, and I could feel a spark of happiness course through me. "I just don't want you to see . . . all this. I just want, like . . . It doesn't matter. You don't always get what you want." She said, and sighed. I have no idea what she was talking about. I mean, sure she looked a bit beat up, but she had just gone through having her lungs be filled with water.

"Is that so? I'd always thought the world was a wish-granting factory." I said, and her eyes flicked across my face.

"Turns out that is not the case." She said, and I reached for her hand, wanting to see if the coldness was gone, but she shook her head. "No," She said quietly. "If we're gonna hang out, it has to be, like, not that."

"Okay," I said, trying to keep the smile on my face, but the spark of happiness had dulled. "Well, I have good news and bad news on the wish-granting front."

"Okay?" She said, nervously.

"The bad news is that we obviously can't go to Amsterdam until you're better. The Genies will, however, work their famous magic when you're well enough."

"That's the good news?"

"No, the good news is that while you were sleeping, Peter Van Houten shared a bit more of his brilliant brain with us."

I reached for her hand again, this time handing her the thick slip of paper form Peter Van Houten. She didn't read it, just sat there, and smiled at me sadly. I wanted to tell her that I was dying. Well, I didn't want to tell her- I just wanted her to already know.

Eventually, her parents came back in, and I left, calling my parents to pick me up.


	8. Chapter 8

_Everything belongs to John green_

C8

I sat on my bed, my feet propped up on the frame, and my head at the bottom. The pain kind of went away when I did this, but the ache was always there in my hip. Sitting. Waiting.

I suppose it's easier to accept that you're going to die when it's happened before. The shock came, but I guess I was always expecting it. At least, for the time being, I could still go on like nothing changed.

I could hear my parents talking upstairs, their feet clattering against the floor as they walked around the kitchen making dinner. I had started chemo today, so I feel kind of sick, but not as sick as I will in a while. It's nice that everyone is pretending that I can get through my second bout of cancer, but I know for a fact that I won't make it. I siged, and then went up- my parents had called me for dinner.

I called Hazel after I had finished dinner. I was sitting on my bed again, in the position, and had the TV on.

She picked up immediately. "Bad news," she said, and I could feel my heart plummet. I knw this was coming.

"Shit, what?"

"I can't go to Amsterdam. One of my doctors thinks it's a bad idea."

I sat still for a second, considering how bad her bad news could be. "God," I said, and ran a hand through my hair. No fallout from chemo yet. "I should've just paid for it myself. Should've just taken you straight from the Funky Bones to Amsterdam."

"But then I would've had a probably fatal episode of deoxygenation in Amsterdam, and my body would have been shipped home in the cargo hold of an airplane," She said, with a touch o humor in her voice. I cringed.

"Well, yeah, But before that, my grand romantic gesture would have totally gotten me laid."

She laughed, and I grinned. But I could hear that she was having some trouble getting her breath back- more than a normal human.

"You laugh because it's true," I finally said.

She laughed again, this time holding the phone away slightly, so the noise was quieter.

"It's true, isn't it!"

"Probably not," She said, and then paused, "although you never know."

I moaned. "I'm gonna die a virgin,"

"You're a virgin?" She asked, with a larger amount of surprise then I had expected.

I tried to think up a way to explain my situation. "Hazel Grace, do you have a pen and a piece of paper?"

"Yeah?"

"Okay, please draw a circle." I paused, while I assumed she was drawing a circle. "Now draw a smaller circle within that circle. The larger circle is virgins. The smaller circle is seventeen-year-old guys with one leg."

She laughed again, her voice going soft. She was so full of laughter, it was like she was bubbling over. "You know," She said, and I could practically see her, giving me a wry smile. "Having most of your social life revolve around a children's hospital generally doesn't encourage promiscuity."

Now it was my turn to laugh.

When I got home from school today, I had a voicemail from Hazel, so I called her back. She picked up immediately.

"Hi," she said, her voice tearful.

"Hazel Grace,"

"Hi," She said again, this time her voice was thick with sadness.

"Are you crying, Hazel Grace?"

"Kind of?"

"Why?" I asked softly.

'Cause I'm just—I want to go to Amsterdam, and I want him to tell me what happens after the book is over, and I just don't want my particular life, and also the sky is depressing me, and there is this old swing set out here that my dad made for me when I was a kid." I smiled sadly.

"I must see this old swing set of tears immediately, I'll be over in twenty minutes."

I went as fast as I could without actually going over the speed limit. When I finally got to her house, I could she her lying in the grass in her backyard. As I walked over, she wiped her face on the wrist of her shirt, and then gave me a feeble smile. "Hi," She said.

I tried to sit down next to her, but due to my god damn prosthetic, I landed hard on my ass. "Hi," After a while she looked at me, and I looked away at the same time, not wanting her to know how much I've been staring at her recently. "I see your point," I said, as I lay my arm over her shoulder. I hope she couldn't feel my heart beating like a hummingbirds wings."That is one sad goddamned swing set."

Her head nuzzled into my shoulder, and I could feel my heart go even faster. "Thanks for offering to come over."

"You realize that trying to keep your distance from me will not lessen my affection for you,"

"I guess?".

"All efforts to save me from you will fail,".

"Why? Why would you even like me? Haven't you put yourself through enough of this?" She asked harshly, looking up at me. I continued to look at the swing set, and tightened my fingers around her left arm.

"We gotta do something about this frigging swing set, I'm telling you, it's ninety percent of the problem."

We went down, and went on her laptop, setting it against our knees.

"Hot," She said as she placed it on my leg.

"Is it now?" I said, and smiled, trying to play off my nervousness. We went on a giveaway site, and loaded the swing set onto it. "Headline?" I asked.

"'Swing Set Needs Home,'".

"'Desperately Lonely Swing Set Needs Loving Home,'" I said, with a grin..

"'Lonely, Vaguely Pedophilic Swing Set Seeks the Butts of Children,'"

I laughed, and she looked over at me. "That's why."

"What?"

"That's why I like you. Do you realize how rare it is to come across a hot girl who creates an adjectival version of the word pedophile? You are so busy being you that you have no idea how utterly unprecedented you are."

She took a deep breath, and looked very flustered. It was adorable.

Once we finished the ad, we watched TV for a while, and then she handed me _An Imperial Affliction_, instructing me to read.

As I read, I could feel her lean onto me, slowly getting closer until I could feel her lungs expand and contract with each stumbling breath.

We were sitting on her couch a few hours later, watching some crappy TV show. Well, she was watching it. I was watching her. I got up to leave- it was pretty late, and then plopped back down, my breath catching as I leaned over and kissed her on her cheek.

"Augustus!" She said, and clapped a hand to her face where I had kissed her.

"Friendly," I said, grinning, and then went over to her mother, "Always a pleasure to see you," I kissed her cheek, and then turned back to her with a grin. I could feel my face growing hot. "See?"

I had an email from Lidewij Vliegenthart.

Dear Hazel,

I have received word via the Genies that you will be visiting us with Augustus Waters and your mother beginning on 4th of May. Only a

week away! Peter and I are delighted and cannot wait to make your acquaintance. Your hotel, the Filosoof, is just one street away from

Peter's home. Perhaps we should give you one day for the jet lag, yes? So if convenient, we will meet you at Peter's home on the

morning of 5th May at perhaps ten o'clock for a cup of coffee and for him to answer questions you have about his book. And then

perhaps afterward we can tour a museum or the Anne Frank House?

With all best wishes,

Lidewij Vliegenthart

Executive Assistant to Mr. Peter Van Houten, author of An Imperial Affliction

When I was at school today, I got a text from Hazel, and because I'm not good at following rules, and I really like Hazel, I read it, even though I was in science.

_Still free May three? :-)_

_Everything's coming up Waters._


	9. Chapter 9

_Everything belongs to John Green._

Today is the day before I leave for Amsterdam, and I am sitting in a white, polished, hospital room, getting poison pumped into my veins.

My mom is sitting next to me, reading a book about some dog who died, and she's frowning like she's trying not to cry. I know that face. But, it's probably not about me, it's probably about the dog, so I just ignore it. My dad is sitting to my left, staring blankly at the TV, and slowly drinking a cup of steaming hot coffee. Suddenly, my mom puts down her book.

"I don't think you should go." She says, her voice rickety. I snap my head to look at her, and it hurts, so I cringe.

"What?" I ask, my voice like sandpaper. She clears her throat.

"I don't think you should go to Amsterdam. I mean, you're so close, honey! Maybe, maybe if you just continued with treatment, you could get better!" I looked down at my leg, which was, at the moment, not attached to the prosthetic.

"I don't really think that getting better is an option, mom." I mutter, and she does the not-crying-frowning thing again.

"But maybe…" She trails off, and I glare at her.

"Do you ever think that maybe I won't make it, no matter what we do? I might as well be happy while I can, _mom._" I say the last word with venom, and regret it instantly. A few tears spill over onto her face, and she rubs them away.

"But you could have fun when you're better." She says weakly.

"I'm not going to get better."

A sigh comes from my dad, who is looking at us sadly. "Just let him go." He says quietly to mom, and she shakes her head, her lips pressed together. He sighs again. "Well, why don't we go and get some lunch." He says to her, and stands up, then pulls her out of the room.

They're probably going to go and talk about my funeral plans.

I grab my phone, which is more of a struggle then I wish it was, and call Isaac. He picked up after a moment. "Gus!" He says happily, and I snort. "What are you doing? I'm just about to go to support group."

"I'm getting poison pumped into my veins." I say, with a trace of humor.

"Oh." His voice falls. "Right."

I think the worst thing about cancer is not dying, it's having to be alive while people know you're going to die.

"Say hi to Hazel." I say, and he laughs.

"I'll gather as much info about her as I can." He says, and I grin.

"Yeah. Make sure she's not going to stick me up tomorrow." He laughs again.

"I'm sure she won't. Although, you know, she might just take the tickets and go with _me_, I mean, I'm a lot more attractive then _you._"

"Says the person who can't even see what color his hair is."

There's another laugh. "Well, I have to go."

"Bye."

I shut down the phone, and wait for my parent to come back into the room. They bring me a little food, which I promptly throw up, as they stand next to me, wincing at my every moment, like they're the ones in pain, instead of me.

I go back home in the evening, my hopes crushed, along with my dreams, and lie awake in my bed. I packed a few days ago. I don't care if my mom doesn't want me to go. I'll go anyways. I can still drive- I could go to Hazel's tonight, and see if I can stay there.

But no. I don't want to hurt my parents.

Instead, I wait here, for the morning to come. I can hear them moving in the kitchen, talking about something-probably me- and then my mom crying softly. Definitely me.

I don't know what it is about night, but I've always found that it's the best time to imagine things that aren't real. So I think about life in the future, with me having kids, and getting married. With me living a normal life, and becoming successful, even though I don't have one of my legs.

With me surviving.


End file.
